Sergei Martynov of Belarus shot a perfect score to win his gold medal, but for all we knew in the stands he may as well have thrown blancmanges at the target. Photograph: Lindsey Parnaby/EPA

Squaddies: check. Police packing more heat than the contestants: check. Military brass band playing the Liberty Bell march ... the shooting at the Royal Artillery Barracks in Woolwich, south-east London, could not do more to meet expectations. Although the announcer who sounds like Ray Winstone, about to tell us that he's the daddy now, is a nice touch.

But sadly, shooting's poor reputation as a spectator sport is not unearned. The qualifying rounds of the 50m rifle prone involves a field of 61 shooters (61!) firing simultaneously at targets that resemble the black dots you stare at during an eye test.

Competitors lie on the floor on what look like pilates mats for more than an hour, occasionally reaching laconically for a bullet as if it was a mint imperial. Stillness is vital for a shooter attempting to hit a 15cm target a hockey pitch length away. It is also a little bit dull.

For excitement, fans watch the players' individual scoreboards and a constantly updating rankings list to work out which eight will make the final: it's like the most horrific mental arithmetic exam you've ever had to take.

I see nothing of GB's hopeful, Jonathan Hammond, but for the barrel of his rifle and an occasional puff from its business end, which is followed by a nine or 10 on his board (elite shooters don't score below nine; presumably the other numbers are kept on the target for inclusivity reasons).

At one stage, Hammond hasn't fired for three minutes. I wonder if someone should check he hasn't fallen asleep down there. Turns out he is waiting for the wind to die down.

There's a cheer from the other end of the stands. Apparently the world No1, Sergei Martynov, has completed his six rounds without dropping a single point, a new world and Olympic record. I hear secondhand that Jess Ennis at the Olympic stadium has broken a hurdles record and feel a pang of envy.

Hammond finishes 17th. The competitors in the 25m rapid fire pistol take to the range. This is slightly more unsettling to watch: at least with a rifle there's a hint of hunting game or vital army sniper work. The 25m guys hold their guns at arm's length, picking off targets in short order like Quentin Tarantino hitmen.

Those mental associations are of course the ones the sport is desperate to dismiss. Presumably this is why the finals take place in what looks like the club Zebedee hangs out in with the Teletubbies when they've drunk all the booze at the Magic Roundabout.

Things get even trippier on the inside. In their one-sided jackets, visors and eyepieces, the eight finalists in the "prone" (I've caught the lingo) line up in the kind of patchwork outfits that would grace the catwalk if Alexander McQueen collaborated with Mugatu from Zoolander.

They take their positions. This time there are big screens showing each of the targets next to each other. We see exactly what's going on! Plus there are only 10 shots fired in the final, so every trigger-pull counts and the tension builds with every instruction to load. It's all rather thrilling, in a muted, don't-speak-too-loud-or-make-any-sudden-movements way. The organisers even show action replays. (Think about this: slow-motion replays of guys lying very still.)

We're still expected to keep our maths up, though. "Watch out for that differential!" the announcer chirrups. What the differential tells us is that, with two shots still to go, Martynov is untouchable. In his shooting gear, the Belarusian looks like the kind of pirate who would have your kidneys for breakfast. Without it, he looks six inches shorter and kind of sweet. By the time he's on the podium in his orange, white and green trackie you want to hug him (then take him shopping). First impressions, eh?